Long Imperceptibly Poems
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coronavirus
comes for the self-quarantine,
isolated life
coronavirus
comes to wear an oxygen mask,
to shut the mouth
for that virus
our dead while living existence
has nothing to do
isolation, closing door,
dazed lives in dark knowledge
for that virus
coronavirus
comes as the saboteur
spreading secret fear
coronavirus
does not believe in unity
of world human
coronavirus
refuses to worship together
in the prayer house
coronavirus
comes to lets go of the belief
that God exists
coronavirus
comes imperceptibly
with boat for the dead
death for the virus
giving birth new bantering tale
in that beliefs
who is Almighty?
in belief-disbelief game
God or the virus?
-19.03.2020 Chattogram
In time arrow’s one way course the winds of change blow,
wafting from the fading end to an unknown another new,
the thrust of transformation they get from the power
the spurt of history gives that goes on increasing ever.
The direction toward the world order received from
the compass of current events can’t ever be altered,
the intent it inscribes on the social landscape page,
the crafty world leaders design, is difficult to change.
Mankind strives to shed the unwanted old grimes,
like the autumn dry leaves the wind sweeps away,
bury under the sand layers of senile forgotten time,
but they rise in new forms in authoritarian regimes.
Indomitable spirit emerges from the debris of history,
new generations of belief and value emanate strong,
like escalating momentum of human rights paradigm
that’ll succeed if ever it can defy the vested interests.
,
The time arrow strikes hard with manipulated wrath,
transforms fast and invariably the vulnerable core
of the traditional society proud of integrity and unity,
imperceptibly into one of intolerance and hostility.
The conventional concept of herd living in free world
changes to isolationism with disintegrated families,
evolving into self-destructive fragile breed, collapsing
under psychic stress of changing times of uncertainty.
If the maneuvered course of post-cold war geopolitics
demolishes the critical balance of power and authority,
weaker nations will turn into mute and powerless pawns
in the game of chess, its rule devised by new world order.
___________________
April 20, 2022
Contest : New World Order
Sponsored by : Robert James Liguori
In my arms secure I delicately brush back your hair,
Touch your skin almost imperceptibly
Your eyes vanish into mine.
I feel miraculously lost in your splendor...
but...
it is the scent of your soul...
In my arms guarded you graze my lips with slender fingers
Kiss my body, soothingly knead my shoulders,
you inhale my gaze,
steal me, lead me to your dominion
but...
it is the scent of your soul...
Fusion of companions luscious in the air
Voices that harmonize in the sounds of pleasure
Willingly unconscious in a flurry of delight
On an adult merry-go-round of fervent assimilation
but...
it is the scent of your soul...
your beauty unmatched
violet colored eyes, sun embraced hair,
an unblemished china white complexion,
lips that dance in sync with spring,
but...
it is the scent of your soul...
your primal allure unparalleled
that bedroom draw that you possess
your fragrant heat that screams a man's desire
those womanly parts, a body perfect entices...
but...
but, still there is no measure.
The strength of your kindness,
your giving nature,
your nurse like instincts,
the pure drive of your convictions.
I would sacrifice all else
nothing matters more...
it is the scent of your soul that owns me.
12~10~2014
Sponsor: Anthony Slausen
Contest Name: The Scent of Your Soul
I was here once
But now I'm one of the forgotten ones
I faded away slowly
Imperceptibly
Like the once vibrant blue of blue jeans
The edges frayed
as I walked along the road of fleeting popularity
I felt my fabric thinning
until I became comfortable
It made me kinda cool in a way
for I was worn almost every day
it felt better than okay
Paired with shirts and sweaters
until a time later other clothes seemed better
My holes became too noticeable
instead of somewhat perceptible
The day came
when I was sorta just a bit out of style
So you washed and folded me
carefully put on me on a shelf
After all I was a favourite
no one wants to throw a favourite away
Right there in the closet I stayed
Next to all the pretty new things
waiting
until the day
You might wear me again
But somehow
like sometimes
things just are what they are
faded old blue jeans
inexplicably disappear
If you ever do find them
You smile and remember
how they made you feel
But sadly
when you try them on
they don't fit anymore...
FADED
I was visible once
but now one of the forgotten ones.
I faded away slowly
imperceptibly,
like the once vibrant colour of blue jeans.
My edges frayed
as I walked along the road of fleeting popularity.
I felt my fabric thinning
until I became comfortable.
It made me kinda cool in a way.
I was paired with shirts and sweaters
until a time later other clothes seemed better.
My holes became too noticeable,
instead of somewhat perceptible.
The day came
when I was just a bit out of style.
So you washed and folded me
carefully put me on a shelf.
After all, I was a favourite.
No one wants to throw a favourite away.
Right there in the closet I stayed,
next to all the pretty new things.
I waited
craving the day
you might wear me again.
But somehow,
things just are what they are.
Faded old blue jeans
inexplicably disappear.
If you ever do find them
you smile and remember
how they made you feel.
Sadly though,
when you try them on,
they just don't fit anymore.
Listening to Edgar Allan Poe
Amazing! (see below)
from Edgar Allan Poe
early 19th century..
we await this awakening
today!
switching of identities
sometime in our lifetime
is the one and only
purpose we have..
Jehovah replaces Man
as felt identity..
beliefs are cast aside
and our activities
are activities of That
which we are...
Think that the sense of individual identity will be gradually merged in the general consciousness—that Man, for example, ceasing imperceptibly to feel himself Man, will at length attain that awfully triumphant epoch when he shall recognize his existence as that of Jehovah. In the meantime bear in mind that all is Life—Life—Life within Life—the less within the greater, and all within the Spirit Divine."
- Edgar Allan Poe (1809 - 1849)
Eureka: A Prose Poem
Two people cannot see the same way but they can teach
One another their ways. One gives up body and soul
To follow the flow of the historical woman until
He can close his eyes and glide through mountains effortlessly.
He gives up earth and he gives up air, he gives up being touched
But he forgets to give up desiring to be touched. Then
One day the sun is hot or the moon is full, he desires
Uncontrollably to be touched and flies smack
Into the mountain, never comes out the other side.
You live to prepare yourself to die. You leave behind
A wreck of strewn projects or a few icy pearls.
Incredibly you leave your voice behind saying
Over and over again the same words. You leave
Memories of yourself behind as pictures in the heads
Of people who wish you weren't dead or hadn't been alive.
They wash the pictorial body, shave it, comb your hair
The way they liked it best, cut a little here, add a little there,
Then easily, easily and kindly forget you.
Two hundred years later the wall crumbled and burned.
The ashes were spread logically across the plain,
A mathematical formula could describe the distribution.
The ashes were like seeds and from them
A thousand higher walls were made. It was lovely
To see those walls breathing imperceptibly
Shifting their glances so slowly as to go unnoticed
Behaving as if they were dead.
If I breathe, they breathe. If they are ash, so am I.
Having tried to separate myself and failed
I donate my body to science. The wall needs me
To breathe and hear. It gets my ears and lungs.
Trees need me to cast their night spells.
Are they asleep or are they dancing
A primitive fertility dance in the forest?
I choose trees because they can watch everything
From the distance of longevity.
To them I donate my soul.
Everything should be made of earth.
Earthen walls, earthen homes, earthen bodies, earthen sex.
Nothing should be made of air. Earth should inhale
And exhale air. Air should whip and caress earth.
Air should dry it out and crumble it. Earth.
Water should wet it and dissolve it. Earth.
What is the function of fire? Fire makes earth permanent
And then fire makes earth into air. Water
Makes earth into mud. Mud makes earth into homes.
Homes make earth into walls. Walls make the earth breathe.
Breathing makes the earth crumble. Crumbling
Makes the earth seed.
I Wait With Bated Breath...
(slack jaw froze mine countenance
when eyes blinded with figurative
daggers asper mistakes in original draft,
hence...this flood proof, fire resistant,
and fever reducing error free version.)
(yes...yes...yes, this rhyme
resembles a recent one of mine
from a previous time,
yet appropriating wands zone writing
haint no crime -
at least not yet!)
Okay bull heave me you,
at this moment
alm completely unaware
what the a muse zing
genie of poetic
inspiration will bring
possibly shelving what Calliope
holds in store for me,
meanwhile now
with impatience it ching
visa vis to discover
what this Earthling,
(albeit modest) will be amazingly
graced with pizazz, meanwhile aye fling
haphazardly, indiscriminately,
and jocosely blitz
krieg feebly attempting
to contrive ingeniousness emits
poetic prestidigitation in fits
and starts, sans "FAKE" wits
as this humble
human imperceptibly orbitz
around mister Sun,
(which about bajillion years
from now suddenly quits)
shining foisting misery,
where Nyx knocks
(paddy whack give
my dog a bone...) divinely,
knowingly and spiritedly visits
(believe me you) this trumpeting
stupid moron loser
forever doth taint
after this moment
(no need tubby saint
lee and suppress any quaint
gut wrenching chortle)
at what aint
no farce), nor literary feint
yours truly painfully,
sorrowfully, and verily avers,
he now lacks fire and fury
(as if nettled and docked by burrs)
nonetheless, which ambition
dust hanker mink thinks furs,
and foremost (Tom
morrow i.e. purrs
sues tha owl mighty,
where fame posthumously spurs
me amidst pantheon
of great writers
which dream dashed
into a million,
(no...no...no...not
bajillion this instance,
though good guess) pieces
abysmal silence replacing
(palimpsest like),
mine over active imagination whirs.
It’s May 18th, 2022. I’m poised, alone, heart pounding, in front of my laptop, waiting for courage, my finger hovering over the return key, like a child hoping the timing of my keystroke will bring me luck.
I took this summer off - which drove my mom absolutely CrAzY. “You CAN’T!” she’d said last month, only to be overruled by my Grandmère. Now I’m home for summer break and tonight she’s flush with exasperation.
“You should have applied for a dean’s fellowship,” she said, her voice rising as she rubs her hands together, as if scrubbing for an operating room procedure, “and a summer research position!” She’s practically twirling with suppressed emotion.
I get why she’s upset. She only goes “deep end” when she's worried about my future. She knows what’s needed to get a medical school slot in 2025 like other moms know their favorite recipe - after all, she’s done this twice before.
Leong’s upstairs, avoiding this family scene. When I described my family expectations as “hustle culture,” to my roommates, they all understood - we’re that much alike.
Step (my stepfather) is trying to de-escalate and calm us (her) down. “Look,” he says, holding up his hands like someone talking down a gunman, “NEXT summer she’ll buckle down, get in more volunteer hours and get a dean’s research fellowship” he says, sliding his eyes to me. I nod “ok” almost imperceptibly. “It’s ok to start grinding sophomore year - that’s what I did.”
OOOO! She turned to him and if looks could kill, he would have exploded like someone in a Tarantino movie.
By some psychic grace my Grandmère chose that moment to call. Step and I fled the den like it were on fire, going our separate ways to halve the chance of being followed.
In my dark room, lit only by the light of my MacBook, a quiver runs through me, and I finally press return. My grades for Spring semester - and Freshman year come up. My eyes water and I relax back against my chair when I see “Dean's List.”
I smile to myself, and slowly, fiercely I clench my fist with a “YESS!" As I postulate my victorious reprieve.
(Dedicated To Submariners All Over The World)
Dived deep in the bowels of the seas
My steely shell’s a womb.
Deep down amidst the oil and grease
I am at peace in the Lovecraftian tomb!
What’s with the antonyms, you may ask?
Two opposite words you’ve used -
One’s a warm and wonderful cask,
The other’s dead and worm-abused.
The words are apt, as you’ll soon realize,
For a sub’s a Faustian hell
Where the soul imperceptibly dies
A place where sub-human’s dwell!
Dimmed lights cast a sepulchral gloom,
Myriad machines sing Orphic songs
Of palpable peril and impending doom;
Each one of us a Houri’s groom!
To us’s denied the kiss of the sun,
Not for us the fresh blown breeze,
We know not when the day’s begun,
Nor when the night’s a-freeze!
Up periscopes and down again
The klaxons’ strident screams
Make us jump from where we’ve lain
To drilled duties in well-oiled teams.
The sighting of a laggard prey,
Spells sure a petard blown,
For a homing submarine fish tail spray
Brings terror to hardened men and grown.
Though through silent prowls of the deep we hunt,
Like coin could be our fate.
Our shell could crack with the depth charge brunt;
With Davy Jones we’d have our date!
But when heightened pulse and throbbing heart
Have ceased their labours wild,
Routine sets in and all is “back to start”
Each one an unborn child.
The sub becomes a womb, you see,
A place where your thoughts get sorted;
An amniotic envelope, safe and cozy,
With fair chance to get aborted!
So I hope now that my ditty’s run its course
The message’s plain and grim
That life and death share the same source -
For a submariner womb and tomb are synonym!